


Denial

by fuckitfireeverything



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:58:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckitfireeverything/pseuds/fuckitfireeverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the steps of grief passed, though if he were being honest Clint should have gone into psych and asked Dr. Angell if “repression” was, maybe, the real fifth stage of grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madness_and_smiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madness_and_smiles/gifts).
  * Inspired by [believe in me (help me to believe in anything)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/404963) by [madness_and_smiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madness_and_smiles/pseuds/madness_and_smiles). 



> SPOILERS FOR THE AVENGERS MOVIE

For three weeks, eight days, seven hours, and fifty-six minutes, Clint allows himself to believe that Phil is not dead. After all, as Stark would say, even Fury’s secrets have secrets, so of course he’s lying, just to give them that push. When he’d asked, over shawarma, “so where’s Coulson?” and received only blank stares, he’d laughed it off a little to himself, pictured Phil healing on some remote beach until the Chitauri were all gone, because Clint knew Phil and Clint knew Fury, and from what Clint had heard Clint knew the rest of the team needed that push.

At his mandatory psych eval, Dr. Angell had told him this was natural, that denial was the first of five steps in the process of grieving, that if maybe his denial was lasting a little longer than usual, it could just be an after-effect of having his mind taken over. All things considered, it was all perfectly healthy.

The rest of the five step process came all at once, in a brief flurry of rage that resulted in Clint’s punching Captain America in the face and breaking three of his fingers. He had nonchalantly mentioned Phil, almost by accident, in the present tense, and Steve had lost control and told him through gritted teeth that it wasn’t fair for him to keep deluding himself, that we all like to believe the people we think are dead are still miraculously alive and out there somewhere, but it isn’t fair because they aren’t. As Clint bit his lip and cradled his swelling hand, Steve had spit, _just because yours was a SHIELD agent doesn’t make you special._

And so the steps of grief passed, though if he were being honest Clint should have gone into psych and asked Dr. Angell if “repression” was, maybe, the real fifth stage of grief. 

//

A year later, when Natasha hands him a newspaper clipping in the hallway, Clint doesn’t ask Fury for time off. He just takes it himself, ripping the tracking device out of a SHIELD-issue SUV as he speeds down the highway towards Wisconsin, the worn, wrinkled clipping taped to the windshield. The image is from the local newspaper of some tiny middle-of-nowhere town and shows a handful of high school students proudly presenting a baseball trophy to a suited man with a receding hairline. The caption reads, _Paul Baker (L) with Applewood High students after their fifth straight victory._

Seventeen hours and nineteen coffees later, he finds himself in the town’s little salon, asking if anyone knows where Paul Baker lives.

“He was married to my sister,” he lies easily, turning up the charm for the puffy-haired fifty-somethings who bat thickly-mascaraed lashes at him. “We just want him to know that we still considered him a part of the family even though poor Raquel is in God’s hands now.”

They cede the address to him, wishing him luck. Of course they do. 

//

He likes the high bookshelf — high enough that he can see everything, low enough that he can sit comfortably without hitting his head on the vaulted ceiling. Even he’ll admit, it’s a nice little house. Something he could maybe get used to. 

But vaulted ceilings mean echoes, and echoes mean he can hear the near-silence of a drawer sliding open and the safety of a gun being clicked off before he sees Paul Baker round the corner into the room. 

Paul is still for a minute, gun aimed right at Clint’s heart, and Clint hisses in disbelief, “A whole year?” and the gun drops just enough that were it to go off, it would shatter the little ceramic figurines on the top shelf instead of Clint’s sternum. 

Paul exhales and then Phil straightens himself up, flips the safety on, and puts the gun down, shaking just slightly. Phil is saying something, looking down at his trembling hands guiltily, and Clint takes the opportunity to silently scale down the bookshelf, walk up to his lover, and punch him in the face, half-praying that Phil’s face isn’t as sturdy and chiselled as Captain fucking America’s because broken fingers mean medical locks his bow and quiver up for at least a week. 

Phil takes the punch like a man, unflinching, like he knows he deserves it, and in true Phil fashion he regains his composure and jokes, “That’s going to be hard to explain to the kids tomorrow…”

Something in Clint’s chest breaks, some barrier or floodgate, and so does his voice as he takes Phil tight in his arms and let’s whatever words he can manage come pouring out of his mouth and into Phil’s neck — and even if those words happen to be, “you asshole... you terrible asshole,” he means them with all the affection and love in the world. 

He melts into Phil’s touch, holding him tight to make sure he doesn’t disappear, and it occurs to Clint that maybe if he never lets go again, he’ll never have to grieve again. 

But Phil pulls away, pulls back, because of course it was unrealistic for Clint to believe they’d never have to move again, and the pain and hesitation in Phil’s eyes as he admits, “I know. I know I am,” makes something else occur to Clint: it has been a year, and he can tell the people here adore Phi. Why wouldn’t they? And what if there’s a reason for how neat and pretty and clean this house is other than just that Phil is that obsessive about keeping things organized?

And then Phil breathes out, “I believed you’d find me, though,” and it is all Clint needs, and it is all Clint can do to stop himself from crying, so instead he covers it with a mumbled, “You’re still an asshole” and kisses Phil desperately because he knows he can’t talk anymore because Phil is there and Phil is not dead. Phil is very much alive, and the world may not be fair, but at least something for someone has gone very, very right.


End file.
